


Still, That Timeless Moment

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Getting to Know Each Other, Good AUmens AU Festival, Hell Is Awful, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Prophecies, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Quests, Slow Burn, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: "They all meet in an inn. Of course they fucking do. Crowley's been doing this twenty years, and he's never managed to convince anyone to do it differently."Crowley is a former wizard, cast out of the order and now reduced to serving King Luc and Lord Beelzebub. Assigned to find a bastard child of Luc's, his orders are simple - prevent Aziraphale and the rest of his band from finding the child and turning him against the king he so grudgingly serves.A high fantasy AU for AUmens Fest. Updating weekly.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Still, That Timeless Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to MoonyMistress and Raechem for the beta and encouragement. 
> 
> This story deals a lot with mental health. Crowley is a mess, and we're in his head. There is a lot of stuff about depression and anxiety, and he's not happy or well. Also swearing. 
> 
> Title is from a poem, 'The Stockman,' by David Campbell. There's also an AE Housman quote in there, because it was too good not to borrow.

They all meet in an inn. Of course they fucking do. Crowley's been doing this twenty years, and he's never managed to convince anyone to do it differently. 

They're late. He swirls spilt beer around on the table with a finger and tries not to panic. There's a sourness in his throat that might be hunger or might be nerves; he swallows it down again and shifts his weight on the wooden bench. 

Tries to find the fire interesting to watch, pretending it's got the same hypnotic calm that it used to have when he was a kid, and that he isn't a few endless moments from bolting out of here and running. 

No, kids are the wrong thing to think about at the moment. 

Tell Dagon and Beez to do one. 

No, that's the wrong thing as well. Everything's the wrong thing to think about. 

Crowley gathers himself, forces the angles and jagged edges of himself to hold still and wait. Wait a while longer, shadow silent and still. 

It's late morning when they arrive, swirling in the door in a flurry of warm air that smells of the flowers outside. Black inked names swirl in his mind before they turn and look around, before they do anything except come into his life. 

Aziraphale. He recalls the spelling, not the hesitant pronunciation that Beez had given the name; not the star brightness of almost white hair, or the fact he walks into the inn apparently unarmed. The wizard (other wizard). One of the ones without a brand slashed down his cheek, still entitled to the rank Crowley keeps for himself out of spite; one of the good ones as they'd spat in the meetings. 

Anathema. He doesn't like that name; it feels too much like a label he might give himself. Seer, or prophetess or something; they'd argued about what she was but it didn't really matter. 

Tracey. She isn't wearing a skull brooch or a ring made of bones, but he can sense the power from here. Ghosts and not quite ghosts, all hovering behind her, waiting to speak, waiting to be heard. Their loneliness chokes him, but she's smiling and looking around as though she's done this a hundred times before. 

A young lad he doesn't recognise, all gawky rawness and tripping over his own feet. 

All there then, and it's too late to tell them to shove their poxy assignment, he doesn't want to go, he never signed up for hurting children. (What did you sign up for then?) He still doesn't know himself; the answer was thirty years old if he'd had a plan in the first place. 

The group take off coats, bags. Clutter them against the wall and edge into the room. Moving as a group, and he knows they must have been together a few days now, started to feel comfortable with each other. He'll throw that off even if he keeps his mouth shut and stays away from them. It won't matter. 

Crowley taps his bootheels against the flagstones, stares at Aziraphale to the exclusion of the others. 

He doesn't look very much like a killer. Doesn't look very powerful at all in fact. 

In fact, he speaks kindly to the elderly man at the bar and laughs at something Crowley can't hear. He also doesn't appear to be in charge of the group, because it's Tracey who looks around, blonde hair catching flame in the shifting light of the inn and stares into his corner.

He wonders what dead thing has pointed him out. 

They advance as a group. 

There's a flurry of false smiles and nods, and Crowley tries to push his back against the wall without appearing to move. He paints a smile on, jerks his head in acknowledgement of the introductions he doesn't need. The young lad is Newton; he mutters something about spells and working out new ones and says something else with his eyes. He wonders if Anathema is aware yet; how long they've known each other. 

'And you must be Crawly.'

'Y-yeah.'

(Aziraphale's voice sounds like a stream, swift running water through a garden that's sleep warm with sunshine. Rubs the sharp edges of the name down into something bearable.)

'Yeah, that's right. I'm Crawly.' 

He tilts his head slightly, lets them see the brand. He doesn't try to hide it.

'In that case,' and Aziraphale's eyes haven't so much as flickered towards his temple, 'I think we'd best start talking, hadn't we?'

***

It's Anathema who does most of the talking, maybe because she's the one with the notes. There's not enough code for Crowley's liking; she's too quick to keep calling him 'the boy,' talking about reports they'd had of him, of where he'd been living and what he'd been doing. He's ten now. 

Crowley nods along and tries not to think about the end. 

'Of course, we know lots of other people will be looking for him. But his family are very sure of where he is.' Tracey says, with such confidence that it takes him a moment to recall all of the boy's family on his mother's side are dead. That's almost the whole point of it. 

He's used to dead things staying dead aside from in dreams. 

'But Anathema is sure you've got a route sorted?' he manages. 

'Well, the prophecies say...' 

He knows what the blasted prophecies say. He's ...well, not read, that makes his eyes twist and ache and the words never seem to make sense if he does it for too long, but he's heard them a few hundred times at least. Plenty about the kid, much less about how to find him. 

Newton cuts in. 'We have a fairly good idea of the route from the prophecies. It's only a matter of following them, I'm sure.'

There's an incredibly soft noise from Aziraphale which he thinks might be laughter. He wants to say something about 'and not get killed while we're doing it,' but manages to keep quiet. Anathema says it for him, and it stops all the discussion for a while. 

Perhaps he should have asked Shadwell to come along with him, but he hasn't seen the old mercenary for a long while now. Hadn't liked him much even then, but there was something to say for having someone with a bit more practical fighting experience. Crowley's done a lot of things, but fighting hasn't ever been his strong point. 

When he can't bear to listen to more conversations about supplies (he's brought his own, why would anyone share with him) routes (he knows there's going to be mountains involved, he can feel the chill nipping at his bones already) and the fact that they can't let anyone else know what they're planning ('Who the fuck am I gonna tell?' he mutters, and the rest of them stare at him in apprehensive silence) he finally says 'can I see your maps?'

Aziraphale fusses as soon as Anathema lays the parchment sheets on the table, snapping his fingers in a casual gesture, the sort that Crowley uses to light his fags. Practiced. It's the barest scrap of power and it feels, surprisingly, familiar. The parchment obediently waterproofs itself. 

There's a sketch on there. Crowley doesn't look at it; doesn't want to see and thank Someone his glasses are dark enough that no-one can see that he's staring out towards the bar. 

The kid has curly hair. That's too much to know. Keep them nameless, keep them distant and it won't hurt so much. He blinks rapidly and watches the rest of them skate their hands across the maps, draw future plans with a quick movement of skin and sinew, as though bones can't break and paper be torn. 

They all think it's going to work, he realises. The sourness is back in his mouth. 

They'll find the kid and if it goes wrong Beez will have Crowley's guts - he's seen that done once before, some poor sod who hadn't got things done quickly enough - and the rest of them won't notice anything. 

He nods mechanically as Newt starts talking about expected weather patterns and how if they get through quickly enough, they'll be ahead of the early summer storms. 

And then there's nothing else they can find to talk about. No reason to delay. 

It seems like the others sense it as well. 'Are we leaving now then?' Tracey asks, glancing around the group. 

Crowley notes how they all look at Aziraphale, as though they've already decided he's in charge. A quick change from earlier, perhaps because there's a decision to be made. Suits him fine. Any luck, he can manage a few months - a season at most - of being ignored and talked over, of letting the other wizard deal with everything, and then go back and get paid. 

It's not like it's actually going to matter, is it?

Aziraphale nods, once. 'After lunch.' It's a surprisingly decisive reply for someone who's spent most of the morning fussing with his cuffs, everything short of wringing his hands and listening. 

(Crowley wants to hear him speak more. Wants the taste of fear of talking with someone who should spit at him instead, cast him out, draw another brand across the one he already wears or worse.)

They eat quickly. There is laughter, hushed and edged with nerves. He joins in neither. The spilt beer is still on the table; he drags his fingers through it again and watches the ruin it makes of the varnish. 

***

Walking, he can do. There's a horse bus that takes the mail a few towns over, and it's quiet enough they should be able to hitch a ride on that for a few days, and then it's walking through the foothills where they don't bother putting roads in. He's not thinking about that, but he doesn't mind walking in the sun, listening to the silence that always seems to strike across countryside as though the wildlife is aware of him passing through. 

The rest of them are a little silent group. If he looks up quickly enough, they merge into one many limbed creature outlined by the sun. None of them talk to him. 

There's a path that snakes off into the bushland. Red dust, the fine kind laid over stones that turns to veins running with heart blood when it rains, and leads out into the wild. He's a creature of cities and dark shadowy corners; he likes the bitterness of coffee and the wildness of cheap ale and yet, he finds himself watching the path as though it's an escape. 

Walk away up there, Crowley. Keep walking. Walk away from this whole fucking mess, and be done with it all.

It lures him. 

'Are you well, Crawly?'

Someone, how he hates that name they forced onto him. Hates that he can't bring himself to change it except in the storm of his thoughts. 

He forces himself to look up at the group, pulling further away from him. Aziraphale is hanging back from them, glancing back to look at him. Fidgeting. 

That's a new question. 'Of course.'

He looks back once. The path is no longer a shining highway but a fox track or something, forcing its way between scrubland and he can't turn back anyway. 

'Good.'

He walks and tries not to think. That's one thing, at least, that he's good at. 

***

He watches them set up camp, watches them take blankets and sleeping mats 

'Aren't you making a bed?' Aziraphale says, suddenly very close by. 'I don't think this is going to be the most comfortable night otherwise?'

'Oh...I...uh... Watch. Keep watch.'

'Really? I know some wards which would be just as good. Honestly, it'll be no problem to set them up and then you can have a proper night's sleep.'

There's a sting in the words that threatens to drive the breath out of him; words that shouldn't hurt because when has anyone ever trusted him? 

'You don't trust me,' he replies and that's easier to say than he expects. 

Aziraphale smiles. It's a tight little gesture that sets his face into crinkles. 'Of course not. It'd be a funny world if I went around trusting someone like you. But I don't think there's any point in you being awake all night and standing watch when I can set a ward up and you can just stay inside it with us.'

As offers go, it's one of the better ones he's had recently. He'd spent the fortnight coming here trying to balance needing to sleep and needing to keep an eye out. But... 'People can't leave, once you've put the wards up.'

A half hearted shrug. 'That is kind of the idea, yes. I'm afraid I can't really do anything about that.'

Locked in. He yanks his gaze away from Aziraphale's empty hands (where is his sword?) and swallows . Looks at the others, who aren't looking at him. 

'I uh...don't think that I'd like that,' sounds like a better excuse than 'I don't think I could sleep if I'm worried about you lot sticking a knife in me while I'm sleeping.'

'Whatever you like. I could set up some separate wards for you, if you wished? Ones that meant no-one else could come near you?'

Crowley doesn't understand how his voice can be so bland and so enchanting at the same time. There's people who can work magic with words and voices, people who make a study of such things, but he can't sense any power being used. 

It's still too much. He shakes his head. 

Gets a tight lipped smile in response. 'Maybe one day you'll feel more comfortable with us.'

He wants to say something about how he hasn't felt comfortable with anyone ever, or at least that's what it seems like. Wants to touch his scars and force Aziraphale look at the brand until he recoils, shows some awareness that he knows what Crowley is and stops offering the casual kindness that seems to be his style. 

'Good night, Crawly.'

'Good night.' (The name would cut his mouth with gentleness; he can tell that already. It's not a name he ought to profane with his lips.)

He doesn't watch them settling down; doesn't stir when he feels the faintest tingle of power as Aziraphale makes them safe for the night. Nothing. It means nothing. 

One moon rises eventually. Drags the other in its wake, draws shadows from the nearby trees. He watches them for a kind of company, twists onto his back and studies the familiar faces of the stars. He'd known all their names once, drawn them with a careful hand and a surety that was as near to grace as he'd ever felt. 

He wonders if Aziraphale knows anything about stars. Wonders why he's thinking about the other wizard at all. 

The dream slips over him before he's aware that he's closed his eyes. 

**

A summoning. A pointing out that he's not been working enough the past year, that he's failed more jobs than he's succeeded in, that they have to keep paying his fees back. The undertone is there (you've failed us, you've let us down. We're the ones who took you in, remember? The ones who give you food and clothes and somewhere to sleep...and we don't charge you for it at all.)

(He rages against that, even in his sleep. You take everything.) 

He nods, head down. Rust red hair dragging against the table as he slumps. Crosses his arms and uncrosses them, trying not to look nervous. 

Beez glares at him. They're wearing glasses that obscure half their face and Crawly's grateful. His name always slips when he's here. Can't hold his private little act of defiance when he's face to face with his superiors. 

'Our King had... a son.'

He nods, as though that's news. Luc had sired half a hundred children, some of them even with people who wanted them. Some of them had stayed around the city, been brought into the palace. 

He stares at his hands. They're empty here. 

'There's a particular child he had with one of the witches.'

Folds his hands. Wants to not be here. It'll be another shitty task, that's all they ever give him. 

'He's had word that the Wizards are looking for him. He's meant to be...well, a very powerful wizard or something. The most powerful there ever was.'

There's a moment where he wants to suggest something, to firm his thoughts into something like 'so you want me to find him first?' or 'you need me to stop the wizards finding him at all?' He doesn't. 

'Luc wants him brought back here. Safely. The Wizards are desperate to find him, and train him up as one of theirs. If that happens...'

Their words have an echo to them; comprised of screams and fire. The last war wasn't really all that long ago. 

'If that happens, they will finally be stronger than us and will use the boy to kill us and overthrow Luc.' He tries to sound as though he cares. 

Beez smiles. Flies buzz, although the room is empty. 'That is exactly right. We know...the uh back channels have suggested they have put a particular man in charge of this search. We have also used the back channels to...how shall I say this? To suggest that it would be useful for everyone if you were to go along with them.'

He'd lost the capacity to be surprised a long while ago. 'Why would any of them believe that?'

'Just do as you're told for once, Crawly and don't fuck this up. If you're capable of not fucking things up, that is. Go and help Aziraphale find the kid. We'll show you the cover stories and everything tomorrow so you don't need to keep asking questions.'

He's almost out the room when Beez speaks again. 'Luc wants him back here. It would...it would better for us if Luc doesn't get his spawn back here. And if the Wizards don't get him either. He's too powerful. Do you understand?' 

**

He pulls himself into a sitting position, locks his arms around his knees. The stars are mostly set now. The faintest shimmer is visible to his left where the rest of them are sleeping, a trace of Aziraphale's powers. All wizards are meant to have their own signature if you know their work, although you can't see your own. That one looks almost like a pearl. Whites and creams and the softest of blues, cross hatched.

(His own would be bone white. Maybe the grey wool colour of a shroud.)

The boy is going to die. 

He's known that for two months, since that meeting with Beez. He's relived it, that same choking dream, every time he's slept since then. Perhaps it was one last act of cruelty from them, ensuring that he couldn't forget the details of what he'd agreed to do. 

He must doze after that, muscles aching, ears straining for noises because he blinks awake when he hears Aziraphale's voice. It cuts through the rain. 

'Crawly, we need to leave now.'

He doesn't spare the energy to argue, even with himself. Just makes up his pack and shambles into place with them the group, alongside Aziraphale.


End file.
